


Citadel Cuddles

by WastelandBaird



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, No Sex, No Smut, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 02:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10866990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WastelandBaird/pseuds/WastelandBaird
Summary: After a long, hard day of work, sometimes the best way to relax is to have someone wrapping themselves around you and letting all the worries be forgotten.





	Citadel Cuddles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Splinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/gifts).



> For Mad Max Fury Road Exchange 2017. The prompt was from Splinter: "Cuddling fic. Can be comfort or fluffy, shippy or gen, though I'd like the focus to be on non-sexual touch. They're both very physical characters who have had reason to be guarded, so I'd love to see them responding to the comfort and trust of touch." I'll admit, I'm more of a genfic writer, but I'd thought I'd give shipping a try, even just light cuddling. Here's hoping it satisfies your expectations.

He'd been back for perhaps an hour before she got in. It had got to the point where he didn't need to look up to know it was her, he just smelt the sweat soaking her road clothes and the gun oil on her rifle. Still, he rolled his head out of the divot he'd left in the old pillow and propped himself up on one arm to properly greet her. 

"How'd it go?"

She shrugged off her ammo pouches and left them hanging on the chest of drawers next to the door which had seen better days. That description could have been used for near-on everything in the little room carved out of Citadel rock, tucked high up near where the Vault had once caged the newest leaders of this oasis. It applied well to the iron-framed bed with its mismatched comforters, stained mattress and tatty blankets. It fit the ancient half-broken recliner in the corner, the leather of which had cracked from abuse many oldyears ago. It encapsulated the olive green steel footlocker at the end of the bunk, small spots of yellow paint all that remained of the military identification codes that had once defined its existence. Even the candles scattered in tiny niches in the wall had wicks burnt short by time, their better days blown into smoke. 

He couldn't make it apply to her though. 

In the fading sunlight of near-dusk, she shone. The metal of her arm gleamed like the chrome of the war machines worked on far below, her darkened eyes spoke to the ruthless military intelligence that had served her well on the Fury Road and her whole posture radiated command and lethality. A true warrior of these times. At least, until she exhaled with enough emotion to cause a rock slide, and she seemed to deflate like one of those gasbag dirigibles he'd seen once, far to the south. 

"I hate those fukashima deathdealers. I hate that we need them, I hate working with them, I hate that cordite smell they carry 'round with them, I hate that so-called "Farm" of theirs, I hate their politics, their lies, their endless sniping, I wish I could bury the lot of them in a shallow grave in the sand and leave them to choke!" As she went through the litany of venom, her voice got louder and louder, until she was nearly screaming. Then, just as he thought she was about to start again, she unslung her rifle, leaving it leaning against the cool rock, stripped down to her chest bandages, and flopped onto the mattress. 

As per usual, they didn't have sheets on the cot, it was high summer and like a old-time sauna in there. That's not to say that there weren't sheets, just that they were in a pile under the bedframe. Furiosa had decided to take her usual position, right side of the bed, up against the rock wall. Max had been working on the cars all day, so he was perfectly prepared to go to sleep, let everything fade away into the black of sleep. He really should have expected that that wasn't going to happen. 

For a fairly slender woman, and one with only one arm, she was quite strong, and he didn't even bother resisting when she slid her legs around his, trapping them together. She'd already unstrapped her prosthetic, so only her right hand wriggled under his torso and wrapped around his abdomen. Hot breath tickled the hair on the back of his neck as she nuzzled into his short-cropped hair. "Sorry," she whispers into the darkening room. "I shouldn't have shouted like that." 

"Don't say sorry," he says, mumbling into the pillow, "'s your right to be pissed off at 'em. Bastards." He means it, too. There's a chunk of crumbling foam mattress topper hanging from a rusted meathook in the garage that can testify to his right to be angry at the world. She deals with politics and negotiating, so in his eyes, she's even more entitled to want to punch something. 

In response, she hugged him a little tighter, and ran her hand down his bare, scarred thigh. "Yeah, damn straight. Schlangers are gouging us for every litre we're willing to give them." Furiosa sighed. A small scratch along Max's navel made him wriggle in her arms and her smirk. Even without the sheets to hold it in, he could feel the mattress warming up with their body heat. She didn't really like leaving them off, he knew that much, but the only alternative was to use the Before-time method of soaking pyjamas, and since they didn't have any dedicated sleep clothes, or the frivolity to waste water like that, the blankets stayed in the pile on the floor. 

He returned the scratch with a two-fingered rub on her neck, consciously avoiding the brand that was the mirror of his own. It occurred to him then that Joe would have hated this sight: two people in a functional relationship, and not one man on top of a screaming slave. His fist tightened, and his shoulders tensed. Furiosa must have felt it, because she wordlessly rubbed her nose into the top of his spine and stroked around his abdominal muscles. 

Still, for all the rumours and gossip of War Boys, she wasn't riding him hard every night for the twin purposes of her pleasure and an heir to her legacy. Neither were really ready for something like that, the incredible trust you needed to put in someone to be able to let them be inside you, to not have one hand on a knife as you fucked. Time was needed, and who knew how much they needed? 

So, they compromised. Intimacy, but not vulnerability. Security, but no chains. If having a tender moment meant that, for now, Max and Furiosa cuddled and petted, they were fine with that. 

"Leave 'em. Deal with it in the sun. You're the Imperator. Fuck 'em." That meant, in the words of these times: You'll be fine, don't let it stop you from sleeping tonight. You're better than them, at your game and theirs. So fuck them. 

Furiosa might not have grown up in the old world like him, but she still got the intent loud and clear. "Right." She paused, letting the mumbled syllable hang in the air. Then, she said, "Night, fool." He twisted round in her grip, placed a kiss on her tanned forehead and whispered the same right back at her. "Night, Furi."

They went to sleep like that, all tangled arms and legs, breathing softly and smiling, like they'd done so few times before they'd met at gunpoint.


End file.
